


Nakara

by PenguinofProse



Series: Season 7 speculation [4]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Brainwashing, Episode speculation: 7.06, F/M, Nakara
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24882451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenguinofProse/pseuds/PenguinofProse
Summary: Short spot of speculation ahead of episode 7.06. Featuring void!Bellamy, snow, and Bellarke's greatest hits.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Series: Season 7 speculation [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1783594
Comments: 22
Kudos: 99





	Nakara

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know, I'm supposed to be starting my next longfic. And I'll start posting it any day, really I will. But I keep getting distracted by S7, so here's a short spot of speculation ahead of tomorrow's episode! Huge thanks to Stormkpr for betaing this. Happy reading!

"Are you ready?" The disembodied voice floats through the room.

Bellamy does not answer. He has no intention of telling them anything.

"Mr Blake? Are you ready to submit to memory capture?"

He will never be ready for that.

"Mr Blake. If you do not submit to memory capture, your brain may be permanently damaged."

Let them try. Let them damn well try.

"Very well, Mr Blake. Let us proceed. You're in love with the Commander of Death. What can you tell us about that?"

Nothing. He can tell them nothing. They'll get nothing on Clarke from him.

"Very good, Mr Blake. Her name is Clarke. This we knew, but it's a start. It's a way in. You're going to tell us about Clarke. You're going to show us your love story. And you're going to start from the very beginning."

…...

_He has firm opinions on love, as a child._

_Love is Penelope, waiting for Odysseus. It's Mark Antony, betraying his homeland and everything he's ever known for a beautiful woman. Love is Helen, a stunning face, a thousand ships._

_Love is poetic and epic and the stuff of fairy-tales._

_This he knows._

_Or rather, he thought he did._

… _..._

_He realises that his childish fantasies were wrong when he gets to Earth._

_Love is not something you can find in a tent with Roma, or Bree, or even Roma_ and _Bree._

_Love is found in stolen glances, quiet gestures of support. But it is found, too, in a challenging glare and a heated argument._

_Love is found, in short, wherever Clarke Griffin is._

… _..._

_Love is weakness._

_Or maybe it isn't._

_He's not sure he ever did work out the answer to that one, even after all these years._

… _..._

_Love is meeting her in some cramped office that you know she has risked her life to meet you in and seeing the fear and desperation in her eyes as she begs you to help save your people. It is hearing "I'm sorry" and taking in her tears and the trust she wants to place in you and then betraying her anyway. It's the feel of your hand in hers as you apologise to her in your turn and then break out the hand cuffs._

_Love is seeing the betrayal in the lines around her mouth and knowing that it will haunt you for the rest of your days_

_(Love is realising that she got away and knowing that some small part of you is rejoicing, and is grateful that the universe stopped you from betraying her after all.)_

… _.._

_Love is watching her pull a gun on you and knowing she won't shoot. Knowing it with utter certainty. Knowing it better than you know your own name._

_Love is challenging her to make it a kill shot, and knowing that she will not go through with it._

_It's the reconciliation as you drive a rover away from the end of the world and towards the start of a new chapter. It's the foundation of every word you exchange, be it about oxymorons or computer simulations, heads or hearts._

_Love is refusing to let her speak about a future where she's not there._

… _.._

_Love is the look in her eyes when she sacrifices herself for you again, as if that is all she knows how to do, by taking the blame for that harebrained scheme with the worms and the staged accident._

_Love is what keeps you strong when the monster who used to be your sister accuses you of betrayal. It is having the strength to look her in the eye without denial when she says that this is another traitor who you love, because yes, actually, she is._

… _..._

_Love is risking peace and your new home to save her. It's coaxing her back to life with your bare hands, breathing air into her lungs and hope into her heart._

_And then, it turns out, love is being kidnapped, and tortured for memories of her._

…...

"Very good, Mr Blake. You've been very helpful to us."

Helpful? Yes. He thinks he used to be helpful, only he can't quite remember it, somehow.

"You're going to be helpful to us again. Do you think you can do that?"

He nods. Helpful. He can be helpful.

"Very good, Bellamy. May I call you Bellamy?"

He nods again. He doesn't see why not.

"Bellamy. Excellent. I'm going to help you up off the chair, now. And I'm going to give you a gun. You know how to handle a gun, don't you?"

Another nod. He has lots of experience with a range of different weapons. He remembers that – but he doesn't quite remember how he came by that experience.

"I'm going to give you the gun, Bellamy. And then you're going to kill Clarke Griffin, and then you're going to bring me her head."

…...

Bellamy wonders why they want this Clarke woman's head. Must be for her brain, he supposes. Perhaps she's going to have a little brain sightseeing trip to MCAP, like the one he had.

It's a funny business. He remembers going to MCAP, but he can't remember what he saw there.

Never mind. That's not important. Gun. Clarke. Those are the things that matter.

She's on Nakara. He doesn't know why she's on Nakara. The place is a bit of a dump, as far as he can tell. There's snow, and giant spiders, and a lot of bones. But that's OK. He's just here to shoot Clarke Griffin, and then he'll be on his way.

She's easy to find, blundering about the place with four of her friends. They're a noisy bunch, he notices. Someone ought to have trained them better.

That bulky, broad-shouldered guy looks like he knows how to handle a gun, though. Someone did a decent job teaching him.

Never mind. That's not important. Gun. Clarke. Those are the things that matter.

He steps out from the shadows, weapon at the ready, trained on her heart.

He supposes she has a heart. He supposes she's a woman of flesh and blood like any other. And he can't shoot her in the head, not if he's supposed to be taking that back to Bardo.

"Bellamy?" Clarke sounds overjoyed to see him, and that confuses him. People aren't supposed to be happy to see assassins, as far as he's aware.

He nods. He's had a lot of practice at that.

"Bellamy! Thank God, Bellamy. You're OK. It's you, it's really you." She starts stumbling towards him, blundering through snow as she approaches him eagerly. She has her arms open and everything – she looks like a proper fool, he decides.

Has she not noticed he has a gun trained on her?

"Stop there." He orders her firmly. "Stop right there. Don't come any closer."

She does stop, rather abruptly. She staggers to a halt and looks very much confused. "Bellamy? What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." He snaps, because it is the truth. He's found Clarke, he's got a gun. Everything is going to plan.

"Bellamy? Why are you being like that? What – what's happened to you?"

He snorts. Nothing has happened to him. She's talking rubbish.

"Bellamy?" She really does like saying his name. "Please, Bellamy. Just talk to me. Just tell me why you're still holding the gun."

Now that, he decides, he can explain. "I have to kill you."

She gapes. "What?"

"I have to kill you. And take your head back to Bardo."

She is finally lost for words, this strangely talkative enemy. She stands there, mouth hanging open, as she shakes her head and tears stream down her cheeks. He wasn't expecting her to cry. He doesn't know what he was expecting, exactly, but definitely not this overt emotion.

While she stands there, helpless, the bulky guy with the decent weapon handling steps forward. "Bellamy. Hey, man. It's me. It's Miller. Remember me?"

He frowns. Why would he remember a stranger? Such an odd question.

Another steps up to join the party – a young woman with her leg in a brace. "Bellamy. I'm Raven. Do you remember me?"

He shakes his head. He doesn't know why he bothers. None of this is important. Gun. Clarke. Those are the things that matter.

"Bellamy -" Clarke chokes on his name, but the woman called Raven interrupts.

"You love her." She blurts, fierce and confident. "You love Clarke, Bellamy. I don't know why you can't remember us – can't remember her – but you love her. You'd do anything to protect her. You cried for months when you mourned her on the Ring. You remember any of that?"

He shakes his head. This Raven seems very sure of herself, but she's talking utter rubbish.

"You love her." Miller backs her up. "I think you've been in love with her since we first landed on Earth, Bellamy. You used to bicker with her all the time, but I think it was your stupid way of flirting. Jasper had a pool going on when you'd get together."

"You love her." A serious-looking young man claims firmly. "My parents – Monty and Harper – they knew that, and they had me wake you two up first. You looked down on Sanctum, and you hugged, and you looked forward to a new life."

Bellamy shakes his head. These strangers mean well, but he is convinced that they are spouting lies.

Or, rather – he's mostly convinced.

"You love her." The final member of the party, a blonde woman, steps up. "You have always loved her, even when she's had other lovers. You've loved her even when the two of you have been on opposite sides. You loved her even when she locked the door of the bunker."

That – that actually rings a bell. He has been in a bunker, briefly, before now. And he does remember opening a door, and he remembers a shaking hand clasped on a small pistol, and he remembers blue eyes swimming with tears. And most of all, he remembers -

"You'll have to make it a kill shot." Clarke says, looking him right in the eyes.

"Clarke -" Raven tries to step forward.

"No, Raven. This is Bellamy. And if he thinks he has to shoot me, I'm sure he has his reasons. But I'm telling him -" she pauses, and narrows her eyes at him "- you'll have to make it a kill shot."

He gets it. He gets it, all at once, in a dizzying flood of memories and a headache strong enough to knock him to his knees.

His trousers are damp, and cold. There's snow everywhere. He's on his knees, and the snow is half way up his thighs, and it's freezing.

But then warm arms are closing around him, sudden but not unwelcome, and Clarke is tumbling to the snow at his side as she squeezes him tight and sobs loudly.

"Bellamy?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's me. It's really me. I think – I don't know. My head doesn't feel right."

"That's OK." She assures him through her tears. "That's OK, we'll work it out. You know we will."

"We always do." He supplies, as his memories start to realign themselves.

She nods, firm, biting her lip a little.

"I'm sorry." He offers, because that seems like a good place to start, when it comes to realising he was about to shoot the woman he is fast remembering he has been in love with for centuries.

"You're forgiven." She tells him, because she always does.

And then she holds him, cradles his head to her shoulder as they crouch in the snow, while he closes his eyes and lets the memories flood back in.

… _..._

_Love is raw and real, a mess of anger and forgiveness, tied up in knots. It's your greatest strength, as well as your greatest weakness._

_Love is not decades spent waiting chastely for a fairy-tale reunion. It is not a picture-perfect marriage with a brood of children, nor putting forth a fleet to show your devotion._

_It's better than that._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
